


Stockholm

by VicTheSpookyGoat



Series: Promises [2]
Category: Ghost in the Shell (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyberpunk, F/M, Gen, Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Missing in Action, Police Procedural, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Suspense, no beta we die like men, the major is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicTheSpookyGoat/pseuds/VicTheSpookyGoat
Summary: This was her penance, she told herself. For being careless. For letting trust get in the way of better judgement. For letting him go in alone.Rated for language, violence, and sexual content. Stand Alone Complex universe, set some time after Solid State Society. This is a sequel to "Fools", but can be read as a standalone episode. Title changed from "Don't Go Where I Can't Follow" because I'm an idiot.
Relationships: Batou/Kusanagi Motoko
Series: Promises [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603900
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

_Sunday, 23:00_

The drive home from Section 9 that night should have felt like the drive home on any other night. She was exhausted. It was late. There were no other cars on the road. No one waiting for her when she got home.

Except… there should have been someone waiting. _He_ should have been waiting. He was supposed to meet her there, with a six pack and a stupid grin and some flip remark about how she looked like hell that she’d make him pay for later... 

But he wasn’t waiting, and he wouldn’t be meeting her.

It had been 54 hours and counting since he’d last been sighted, charging in alone after a suspect, taking a stupid, unnecessary risk in the middle of a firefight. Probability, calculated from almost a century of global police data, dictated that the first 48 hours are the most crucial in any missing persons’ case; after that, the chances of finding the victim alive drop exponentially. 

The Major tried not to think about those statistics as she drove out of the city and into the sparsely populated hills where she kept her primary residence. The long stretches of empty road and dark countryside offered no distractions, though, and soon her mind was cycling through scenario after worst case scenario. 

That she was making this drive at all, with this case no closer to being solved and this victim no closer being found, was Chief Aramaki’s doing. “If you don’t go home and get some rest, I will pull you from this case, effective immediately,” he had warned, in that particular tone of his that left zero room for protest. “You’re no use to us or to him like this.”

“Like this” was the Chief’s diplomatic way of saying “as a fucking mess.” He was right, of course. The case was a disaster, and she was a wreck. 

Every lead had turned cold before they could follow it, every clue leading further and further down a rabbit hole with no end in sight. The private commlink she shared with _him_ was silent; a constant, taunting reminder of his absence. She had closed the connection, for the first time in years; she couldn’t risk a breach, and she couldn’t stand the silence. 

Her team had been walking on eggshells for two days. They were used to her temper and occasional recklessness, but now she snapped at the slightest provocation, taking risks that seemed to have no explanation, missing things she shouldn’t. Her usual stoic determination had warped into a single minded focus that was rapidly approaching mania. More than once, she caught them talking about her in hushed, worried tones. Togusa and Borma gave her half-hearted reassurances. Paz and Saito said nothing. The rookies steered clear of her completely. Ishikawa had shoved a protein bar in her hand at one point. She couldn’t remember if she had eaten any of it. She hadn’t slept in days.

This was her penance, she told herself. For being careless. For letting trust get in the way of better judgement. For letting him go in alone. 

She should have made him take backup. She should have gone with him. She could have helped him. Would have made the dive herself.

Should have, could have, would have; but didn’t, and now he was gone.

***

_56 hours earlier…_

_\--Damn, these guys are annoying!--_ Although his digital avatar was relatively calm, the Major could hear Batou swearing and grunting behind her as he wrestled with a swarm of very persistent partial cyborgs.

 _\--Yeah, I know, but try not to kill any of them, ok?--_ She had her own hands full at the moment. 

If Ishikawa’s intel was correct, the men currently giving them all a massive headache were just innocent civilians; dock workers who’d draw the short straw in someone else’s game. Dock workers who, incidentally, had almost certainly illegal prosthetic enhancements for strength and endurance that were, under normal circumstances, just meant to increase their job performance.

 _\--You never let me have any fun.--_ Batou’s avatar groused as a yelp sounded from behind her. A stocky-looking man flew over her head and landed like a rag doll several feet behind the lumbering oaf she was currently attempting to subdue with a well placed gut shot with her stun gauntlet. _\--I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.--_

These were not normal circumstances. Each and every one of these men had had their cyberbrain hijacked and upgrades meant to bolster corporate profits were now being employed to ruin a perfectly good Friday afternoon in the middle of Niihama’s financial district by some radical hacker group calling themselves “The Symbionese.” What was it with terrorists and their damn nostalgia trips?

 _\--Don’t kill any civilians and we’ll have plenty of fun later...--_ One worker down. Who knew how many more to go.

 _\--Is that a promise?--_ Another yelp, another body flying.

_\--Guess you’ll just have to follow orders to find out…--_

_\--You guys’ idea of foreplay is really demented, you know that?--_

_\--Is that jealousy I hear, Ishikawa?--_ If she was embarrassed that she’d forgotten they were on a shared comm, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let her team know it. 

From across the street, Batou flashed her a cheeky grin. She pretended to ignore him, but allowed the ghost of a fond smile to brush her lips when he turned away.

***

The safehouse was dark as she pulled into the driveway. Even in her fatigued and distracted state, she still had enough of her wits to remain vigilant. She logged into her custom security system to scan the property, repeating the same steps she took every night. Perimeter secure. Garage secure. Front door secure. Back door… an alert message flashed across the system’s HUD. Someone had entered the passcode twenty minutes before she pulled up. 

There was only one other person who had that code. 

Years of extremely hard-earned experience had taught the Major better than to give in to hope, but that didn’t stop her mechanical heart from speeding up as she stepped out of the car. Sprinting to the front door, though, a tingle at the back of her cyberbrain gave her pause, and she slowed her pace to a cautious jog. At the door, her hand found the grip of the Seburo M5 at her hip. She briefly considered reopening the private comm, but something told her not to. 

She entered the safehouse pistol-first, using the door as a shield as she scanned the entryway. Clear. 

Back to the wall of the narrow foyer, she peered around the corner into the spacious living room, making another sweep. The rising moon and arc lamps along the road outside cast eerie shadows across the room. Lots of places to hide. Such conditions would have made this search difficult, even impossible, for most people. Most people didn’t have illegal military-grade modifications to their visual cortex. 

Clear. 

The wide open space would leave her exposed, and she darted to her next cover, keeping her body low. Crouched against the opposite wall, she scanned the living room again from this new vantage point. Clear. She slid into the hallway, gun at the ready, and slowly crept her way to the double doors of her bedroom. 

The hallway was dark, except for a sliver of moonlight cutting a bright line up the wall across from her, spilling out from between the bedroom doors. Those doors had been closed when she had left; now one was slightly ajar. Synthetic adrenalin and noradrenalin surged through her artificial veins as she tightened her grip on her sidearm and slid her finger onto the trigger. 

Breathe in. 3. 

Breathe out. 2.

Breathe in. 1… 

***

_53 hours earlier…_

_\--Everyone alive?--_ The Major clicked a cyberbrain lock into the last dock worker’s neck ports and surveyed the fruits of their labors. The streets around her were in ruins; nearly every building in the vicinity was missing its front windows, and the luxury sedans parked outside had been reduced to shells, smoldering in the golden light of the approaching sunset. Bodies - dead, alive, and unconfirmed - littered the pavement and building lobbies. She wryly speculated to herself how the Chief would manage to wiggle his way out of paying the bill for this mess.

 _\--Yeah, and seriously considering a new line of work...--_ Togusa’s voice over the cybercomm was sarcastic. Mostly.

 _\--Don’t be like that, Mr. Togusa! Think of all the experience points!--_ The eternally chipper voice of a Tachikoma chimed in next, sounding far too pleased with itself. The rest of the think tanks cheerfully echoed the reassurances of the first, really not helping Togusa’s mood.

 _\--We’re alive, but Borma’s gonna need some repairs.--_ Paz sounded nonplussed, more so than usual. Probably overdue for psych eval. The Major made a mental note to check on that later.

 _\--Safe and sound up here.--_ Saito responded next. Of course he was fine; he and Ishikawa had spent the battle several hundred kilometers above the fray in the relative safety of the tiltrotor.

Five accounted for, but the voice she needed to hear most was missing.

_\--Batou, report.--_

Silence.

_\--Batou? What’s your status?--_

Nothing.

 _\--Ishikawa, verify Batou’s position, now!--_ She didn’t bother to hide her concern. The last time she’d heard from her partner, he’d been charging into the Niihama First National Bank, quoting some American action movie like an idiot. That had been over an hour ago.

After several agonizing seconds, punctuated and exacerbated by the Tachikoma’s whispers of “Where’s Mr. Batuo? I hope he’s ok!”, Ishikawa’s avatar slid into her visual field. 

_\--I can’t get a lock. Either he’s running in autistic mode, or…--_ The older man didn’t dare finish his sentence.

_\--Paz, get Borma to the tiltrotor. Everyone else, start looking!--_

*** 

The door cracked as her boot connected with the heavy wood panel. She whipped into the room, pistol cocked and searching for center mass. It found none. Another sweep confirmed he wasn’t there either. Unsure if she should sigh in relief or swear in frustration, the Major moved back to the door, and warily peeked out into the dark hallway toward the kitchen. She barely saw the Seburo C30 in time before a hail of bullets tore through the door where her head had just been. A white hot flash in her shoulder painfully announced that she’d been hit, at least once, maybe more. No time to deal with that now. 

Quick, heavy footsteps in the hall. An explosion of splinters. Wooden daggers lodging deep in her back as the door shattered behind her. 

Switching off her pain receptors, she dove sideways to the floor, twisting to lock her aim on the shape hurtling through the doorway. Moonlight reflected ominously off pale, disk-like cybernetic eyes as the figure turned to look down at her, his expression contorted with rage and a menace she never thought she would find herself on the receiving end of.

Her breath caught in her throat. _Batou._

He fired again, wildly, cutting a trail of destruction across the floor and up her right leg. No time to deal with that either. She returned fire, knowing damn well that her sidearm didn’t have enough stopping power to take down a mil-spec full cyborg, especially one wearing Section 9-issue body armor. Her aim was true, though, causing him to stagger back and buying precious seconds to stumble to her feet and dive over the bed. Another burst of gunfire resounded behind her and as she hit the ground, she did so with one less arm. Definitely no time to deal with _that._

Unable to properly roll into the fall, she crashed hard against the far wall, knocking the wind from her lungs. Before she could catch her breath, or fully register that her pistol was clutched in the hand of the arm now scattered in several pieces across the bedspread, he was on her. His hand encircled her neck, lifting and slamming her into the windowpane. Her head bounced against the bulletproof glass, and she cried out hoarsely, clawing viciously at his fingers with her remaining hand. Dropping his rifle, he grabbed her wrist and twisted until she heard the sickening crunch of prosthetic bones snapping and artificial ligaments tearing. 

The limb dropped uselessly to her side, and both of his hands were around her neck now.

***

_52 hours earlier…_

_\--Major, I found something.--_ Ishikawa’s voice over the cybercomm was not reassuring. _\--I managed to tap into the security feed of Niihama First National. Looks like your hunch was right.--_

 _\--Send it over, now.--_ The Major was standing in the executive suite of said bank, surveying the scene with a mixture of frustration and creeping fear. The Persian rug and gauche furniture that someone had probably paid way too much for were drenched in blood, and a burnt out dummy barrier lay at her feet, the only clear evidence that he might have been here. Visual data poured into her cyberbrain, even less comforting than Ishikawa’s tone.

She watched intently as the security footage filled her field of vision. Batou entering the suite, rifle drawn. A dock worker standing over the body of a corporate suit. Flashes of gunfire and the worker crumpling to the floor. Batou pulling a dummy barrier and cord, connecting to the worker’s QRS port. The feed flickered, and then, just an empty room; Batou, the worker, and the suit had vanished as if they had never been there.

The time stamp indicated that less than three minutes of footage had been lost. She replayed the video twice more, searching in vain for something she might have missed. Nothing.

_\--He was here. Togusa, I need forensics up here ASAP. Tell them to run the DNA on all blood spatter in the room and surrounding hallways. I want the results as soon as they have them. Ishikawa, get me the feeds from all possible exit routes.--_

_\--Already ahead of you, Major,--_ Ishikawa replied, treading carefully. _\--Whoever hacked that security feed was thorough, there’s nothing here.--_

 _\--Well look harder!--_ She shouldn’t have snapped at him like that. It wasn’t his fault, but she was in no state to start issuing apologies now.

***

Healthy fear had turned to panic.

The Major flailed, gasping, furiously trying to get some purchase to free herself, but he was too close for her kicks to do anything but waste energy. His breath was hot on her face as he leaned over her, cybernetically enhanced grip crushing the prosthetic muscles of her neck like tissue paper. The edges of her vision darkened as her windpipe collapsed next. The only thing she could see was his face, lips curled into an animalistic snarl. 

Changing tactics, she reached out with her cyberbrain, trying to hack her way to safety. Her virtual assault slammed into an attack barrier, far more sophisticated than anything that she knew he was capable of building. Her mind reeled back at the ferocity of it. Given more time, she could have dismantled it, breaking through whatever had hijacked her partner and freeing them both, but she did not have that luxury. 

She kept up her frantic attack, but she was losing consciousness fast. Her oxygen meter flashed a warning; critical depletion imminent. _‘No shit…’_

She chastised herself for not trying to hack him sooner, and then wondered bitterly if this was really how she was going to go out. If she could just reach his ghostline… 

With her last fleeting moments, she flung open their private channel, calling out one final, desperate plea.

_\--Batou! You don’t have to do this! You can fight it… please… Batou...--_

As her vision faded to black, body shutting down around her, she could have sworn she heard a reply, just a faint whisper above the system failure alerts screaming in her cyberbrain.

_Please forgive me._


	2. Chapter 2

_ Sunday, 23:50 _

_ \--Major?--  _

Her visual field was static, her head pounding. Everything hurt. Damn pain receptors must have kicked back on in the reboot. Carpet fibers scratched at her cheek as she stirred. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a raspy gurgle. Her vocal unit had been crushed.

_ \--Major, do you copy?--  _ Togusa repeated his query, obviously trying not to sound panicked. 

_ \--Yeah… I’m here…--  _ She wasn’t sure how she was still alive, but the Major wasn’t inclined to counting blessings. She booted up a self diagnostic, and force-restarted her visual receptors.

_ \--Ishikawa picked up a distress signal from your location. Are you ok?-- _

Glancing down at her tattered, mangled, and bullet-riddled limbs, she sighed.  _ \--Tell the Chief I’m going to need a new body, and get over here. I’ll explain later.-- _

_ \--Shit. Ok... Roger. Already on our way.-- _

_ ‘Damn.’  _ She was going to have to abandon this safehouse, which was a shame, because she really liked this one, and she’d paid a lot for those carpets... 

Pain was making her delirious, she realized, and belatedly switched her pain receptors back off. As she waited for the cavalry, lying on the floor of her bedroom in semi-darkness, the Major forced herself to refocus, replaying the assault over and over in her head, trying to make sense of an event that made none. 

He had been hacked, that much was certain. The attack barrier, the uncharacteristic fighting style, the ruthlessness with which he - no, that wasn’t him, she told herself -  _ his shell _ had attacked her… 

But if he had been sent to kill her, why hadn’t they just made him shoot her in the head; a clean, certain kill? Why had they made him try to strangle her instead? Had he known what his body was doing? Was that him, begging for forgiveness for something he had no control over?

A tangled wave of anger and frustration and sorrow and fear surged over her. Not a combination of emotions she was used to feeling. Tears threatened to well up at the corners of her eyes, but she bit them back, refusing to allow herself that release.

The sound of tires on gravel outside brought her abruptly back to the present. The crunch sounded heavy. An armored van? Leave it to Togusa to be overly cautious. She tapped into the house’s security feed, downloading everything from the last several hours. Someone was pounding on the front door. The cavalry, way too late, but right on time. 

_ \--It’s open. Stop banging.--  _ She didn’t mean to sound as annoyed as she did.

_ \--Where are you?-- _

_ \--Bedroom. Straight ahead, first door on the right.--  _ Multiple voices in the entryway, multiple footsteps approaching her location. Togusa appeared in the doorway, flanked by Ishikawa and Borma, all three in full body armor.  _ \--Did you drag the whole team out here?-- _

“Saito and Paz are sweeping the perimeter with the Tachikoma. Would you have preferred if we'd let him come here by himself?” Ishikawa crossed the room first, and gave her a pointed look as he unfolded a collapsible stretcher next to her. She would not have. 

“Damn, Major, what the hell happened?” Borma knelt down at her other side, taking quick stock of her injuries, while Togusa kept watch at the door, Mateba drawn.

_ \--Tell them not to bother, he’s already gone. I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with that antique, Togusa.--  _

“Who’s gone?” Togusa holstered the revolver, with only a hint of embarrassment, and crossed to where Borma and Ishikawa were now gingerly hoisting the Major onto the waiting stretcher. He eyed her ruined limbs, wincing. 

The Major glared up at the ceiling, unwilling to say the name, even over comm. Thankfully, and as usual, Ishikawa had already put the pieces together.

“Major,” he asked, his voice low and tinged with something like fear, “it was Batou, wasn’t it?”

Her silence was all the answer they needed. Some sick part of her wanted one of them to make a smart remark, to break the tension with juvenile humor, but none of them dared, and the look that passed between her teammates was equal parts confusion and terror. If Batou was compromised enough to do  _ this _ to the Major, well, the situation really was much, much worse than any of them could have imagined.

***

At an ungodly hour the next morning, with her ghost loaded into a spare body until a proper replacement could be procured, the Major watched as her own brutal assault replayed for her teammates on the big screen of Section 9’s briefing room. Behind her, audible winces and expletives escaped the mouths of rookies and seasoned operatives alike. All of them thought they knew what Batou was capable of; this video was making each of them question those assumptions.

On the screen, her digital image crumpled to the floor, partially obscured by Batou’s towering silhouette. He stumbled backward, thrashing as if trying to shake off some unseen adversary, then lurched forward, reaching for the Major’s lifeless body. The rebellion was short-lived. Within seconds, his body snapped back to attention and turned robotically before exiting the frame. The camera feed switched, tracking the cyborg as he crossed the living room and walked out the front door, movements stiff and face blank. The feed flickered, and he was gone, just like before.

The screen went dark, and the lights came back up. The Major didn’t move, even when Aramaki gave her a pointed look that indicated that he wanted her to debrief the team. What was there to say? He didn’t press, perhaps understanding, and turned to Ishikawa instead, motioning for him to share what he had been able to uncover. Ishikawa stood, and news footage of the street battle that had started this whole mess illuminated the screen once more.

“Two days ago, The Symbionese, using a modular delayed action virus, hijacked the cyberbrains of 85 dock workers from the Niihama Central Port Authority. We were able to trace the source of the virus to a recent upgrade to the port’s electronic timecard system. The workers were apparently infected as they clocked in that morning. The virus was triggered at around 13:30, causing all 85 men to drop everything and  _ walk  _ to the central financial district, 2 miles inland. Somewhere between the port and the financial district, the workers were armed - we assume by Symbionese operatives. Their target appears to have been the Niihama First National Bank, but not one of them has been able to tell us why.”

The screen flicked over to the security footage from the executive suite as Ishikawa continued. “At approximately 14:30, Batou entered the First National pursuing one of the workers. At 14:40, he intercepted his target and attempted to dive the man’s cyberbrain. This was the last time he was seen.” 

The screen changed again, now to feed from the Major’s safehouse. “Until last night. At approximately 22:45, using the presumed hijacked Batou and codes stolen from his cyberbrain, The Symbionese broke into the Major’s safehouse. It’s not clear if their objective was to terminate or just subdue the Major, nor do we know what their motive was or what they hoped to gain from attacking her.”

“Other than pissing us off,” Paz interjected, eliciting a round of nods and murmured agreements from the rest of the team, including Ishikawa.

“I understand your anger, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the Chief interrupted now. “This group has managed to hijack or cripple two of our best, and has demonstrated both wizard-class hacking abilities and a willingness to deploy extreme violence without concern for collateral damage. Caution moving forward will be necessary if we are to succeed with minimal additional casualties.” This was met with scowls and grumbles, but no arguments. “Togusa, share what your investigation has turned up.”

The former detective stepped up now, switching the screen to an array of black and white archival photos, including a picture of a pretty brunette posing with a semi-automatic rifle in front of a flag depicting an abstract seven headed snake. 

“We believe that the group takes its name from the Symbionese Liberation Army, a radical left-wing terrorist organization active in the former United States during the mid-twentieth century. Although the SLA claimed peaceful motives, their methods were anything but peaceful, and the group was responsible for two murders, a string of bank robberies, and the abduction of Patricia Hearst, heiress to the Hearst media fortune.”

Togusa paused, bringing images of excerpts from what appeared to be an exceptionally long-winded diatribe to the forefront of the screen. “This manifesto was posted to a private news site message board yesterday afternoon. According to the post, The Symbionese are anti-cybernization, anti-capitalist, anti-state, and anti-military. They make demands for the dissolution of all major banks and corporations in Japan, the Self Defense Army, and Public Security special forces.”

The diatribe and archive pictures disappeared, replaced by a collection of graphic crime-scene photographs. “These were taken at the sites of the last four attacks by The Symbionese. In each case, a modular delayed action virus was used to hijack the cyberbrains of fully or partially cyborized manual laborers. These victims have been forced to carry out seven separate banks robberies and one unsuccessful assassination attempt against the Minister of State for Financial Services, resulting in multiple casualties in each case.”

“Lucky for the Minister the guy they hacked was a crap shot…” Saito drawled from the back row. He had entered the briefing late, but no one bothered to remark on his tardiness, routine as it was.

Togusa switched the screen over again to a chart of the morning’s stock report, taken from one of the major news networks; red lines veering downward to represent tumbling stock prices in the aftermath of the most recent attack. “We suspect that the attack on the financial district was intended to sow doubt in the public’s confidence in Japan's financial institutions. In the two months they’ve been active, The Symbionese have stolen 7.6 million yen, caused billions more in property damage, and hijacked 157 people, including Batou. The workers we’ve managed to interview describe being convinced that their actions under its control were their own ideas, and some even continued to claim loyalty to the Symbionese cause even after being cleared of the virus.”

“It almost sounds like they have Stockholm Syndrome,” Borma interjected, frowning thoughtfully. 

“The psychiatric evaluators said the same thing, but that it doesn’t fit the profile. For one, these men never had contact with the hackers, as far as we can tell,” Togusa responded, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

“From a structural analysis, it appears that the virus may have caused permanent damage to the prefrontal cortex of their cyberbrains,” Ishikawa offered, taking over again. ”The good news, hopefully, is that the virus used to hijack Batou might be a different version than the one used on the laborers, both because of the speed with which it was likely activated, and because of this.” 

The footage of Batou’s convulsing form filled the screen, playing on a grotesque loop. “This clip, and the distress call received from his callsign last night, indicates that he may have managed to regain control for at least a few seconds, something that hasn’t been seen in any of the other victims. We can’t confirm if this is due to some defect of the virus, an intentional ruse by our hackers, or just Batou being a tough son of a bitch, though, and without the source code, we’re not going to learn much more.”

“Our top priority is to capture the Symbionese ringleaders and recover Batou, alive, by any means necessary.” Aramaki addressed his team with a level, decisive tone. “You each have your orders. Move out.”

The assembled operatives stood to attention in near unison, moving quickly and without hesitation to execute their orders. The Symbionese had just made this case personal, and every one of them was eager to pay it back tenfold. At the front of the room, though, the Major still sat motionless, her glare fixed on the Chief as the room emptied around them. 

“What are my orders?” Her voice was hard with emotions she wasn’t used to feeling.

“You,” the Chief replied, meeting her steely gaze with one of his own, “are to stay here. I’m sorry, Major, but I can’t risk putting you in the field with a target on your back.”

Her chair clattered to the floor with a hollow bang, her voice echoing harshly in the now almost-abandoned room. “You expect me to just stay here? When he’s still out there, when he’s…” She faltered, impotent rage stealing her words.

“No, I expect you to do what is in Batou’s best interest, and right now that means standing down.” Aramaki’s level tone was infuriating. “Having you in play,  _ especially  _ if you cannot control yourself, complicates an already delicate operation and I will not have you going rogue just to satisfy some impulse for revenge, however understandable it may be.” 

He stood to leave, leaning heavily on his cane and casting another pointed glance over his shoulder. “Besides, you aren’t going to be of much help to anyone in that shell, and I don’t intend to put you in a new body if you’re just going to go out and get it destroyed.”

“So I’m a hostage, now?” the Major snapped back.

“No, Major,” the Chief replied, his shoulders sagging and weariness creeping into his voice as he paused at the threshold. “But you have not been yourself these past few days, and I will tell you exactly what you would tell him. Get some rest, and cool your heels.”

Before she could conjure a response, he was already out the door, leaving her alone with her anger and frustration and sorrow and fear.


	3. Chapter 3

_Tuesday, 09:00_

_Thwack_

This temporary shell didn’t have the strength of the Major’s preferred model, but something about the bone-jarring impact of its fists against the solid mass of the punching bag was comforting. The pain felt real, and made more sense than anything else that had happened over the past four days.

_Thwack_

She hadn’t bothered to wrap its hands with protective tape, and the shell’s knuckles cracked and bled a little bit more each time synthetic flesh met synthetic leather, its teeth rattling as each blow connected. She didn’t care. She just kept punching, this frenzy of violence against this inanimate object her only solace.

_Thwack_

Bitterly, she thought about all the times she had watched him take out his frustrations on this very punching bag, increasingly creative expletives punctuating each successive jab until all of his anger had been spent. 

_Thwack_

She thought about the rakish smile he would flash her after every venting session, and the way he’d laugh when she’d rib him about cutting the bag some slack. 

_Thwack_

She thought about the knot of worry she would try to ignore when they were in the field, and the flutter in her chest she couldn’t ignore when he would steal a forbidden kiss in the breakroom. The way he silently fretted over every injury, and grumbled when she threw it back at him. Dancing in his living room and fighting over who would take point. Late night beers and early morning walks with Gabu. Bitter arguments and boiterous make up sex. Inside jokes and comfortable silence. The feeling of his fingers in her hair, the smell of his cologne, the sound of her name on his lips... 

_Thwack_

She thought about his face, contorted with indescribable rage in the moonlight. Her throat tightened. Even in this new shell, she could still feel the heat of his breath on her face, the crushing weight of his hands around her neck...

_Thwish_

Her next strike glanced off the surface of the bag awkwardly, causing her to stumble forward. Something in her snapped then, and she crumpled to the floor. A ragged groan of frustration tore at the shell’s throat as she pounded the bag with the side of its fist. At least this body didn’t have tear ducts. 

Deep down, she had known that something like this would eventually happen, though she never would have predicted it would be like this.

She had known that to let herself have this kind of attachment would lead to weaknesses. Known that to let each other in would leave them vulnerable, should have predicted how that vulnerability would be exploited so ruthlessly, but never imagining that it would leave her feeling so intensely helpless…

The feeling of something soft and warm butting against her thigh broke through her recriminations. She looked down, and found the big brown eyes of Batou’s basset hound staring back up at her. The dog whined, and pressed her head into the Major’s leg again. Sighing, defeated, the Major reached out and scratched behind one floppy ear.

“Gabu, what are you doing down here?” The dog just whined again, pushing against her hand for more affection. 

The basset hound had been like this since Batou had gone missing. Borma had initially taken her to his place, but the dog had howled so relentlessly in his absence that he’d been forced to bring her to headquarters after his landlord threatened to call Animal Control. Since then, she had wandered the halls of Section 9, despite their best efforts to keep her contained to the breakroom, with her nose pressed to the ground, relentlessly searching for her master. She was acting how the Major felt; lost, directionless, looking for the one person who could make her world right again.

The Major sat back, crossing her legs, and Gabu clambered into her lap. She never let the dog climb on her, but right now, the feeling of the basset’s heavy body on her legs and soft fur under her fingers was soothing in a way nothing else had been over the last several days. Batou had told her once that a dog could sense when a human was in pain, and that it would instinctively try to comfort them. She wondered if that applied to cyborgs too. Gabu whined again, looking up at her with those baleful eyes, and placed one stubby paw on her arm. Maybe it did. 

“I know, girl, I miss him too,” she whispered, and pulled Gabu into her arms, pressing her face into the folds of the dog’s neck, allowing herself to accept the dog’s comfort, and offer comfort in return. The basset hound relaxed against her, pitiful whines fading into a soft coo of contentment as she stroked one ear. A warm, unexpected feeling settled into her chest. The Major tightened her grip around Gabu’s torso, burying her face deeper into the dog’s soft fur, and Gabu nuzzled her back. 

Cradling the animal in her arms, the Major couldn’t help but think of its master. 

Beneath Batou’s rough exterior, there was a gentle, affectionate man; one who would do anything for the ones he loved. And there was no doubt in her mind that he loved her. 

He didn’t always show it in the ways most people did, but he showed it nonetheless. It was there when he checked the straps on her armor, or snuck an extra clip of ammo into her kit before a field mission. It was there when he gave cover fire, or insisted on taking point. It was there when he listened patiently as she rambled, parsing out whatever case they were on, and when he pulled her out of her own head with some glib but insightful remark about how she was the Major and it wasn’t like her to let anything stop her…

The state she found herself in now definitely wasn’t like her. The Major certainly never thought she would find herself slumped on the floor of Section 9’s gym, clinging to an overweight basset hound like it was the last lifeline in a world crumbling around her. 

This whole case had thrown her off course, leaving her feeling rudderless in a way she hadn’t since Dejima... but at least back then she’d had him at her side, stubbornly pulling her back to reality at every opportunity. Perhaps she had taken for granted how much she relied on him to ground her...

A knot tightened deep inside of her as her ghost whispered a hard truth. They had promised to always have each other’s back, and right now she wasn’t keeping up her end of the bargain. So what was she doing? Had loving him finally made her soft? Was she really going to just roll over and let everyone else do the work to find him? The only thing she knew for damn sure was that if their roles were reversed, he certainly wouldn’t be content to sulk at HQ feeling sorry for himself.

The knot hardened into resolve. It didn’t matter if the path was unclear. It had never mattered before. What did matter was that he was still out there, that she was his Major, and that he needed her. 

It was time to get back to work.

She opened a cybercomm, her voice clear and sure for the first time in days.

\-- _Chief. Where’s my new body?--_

***

It had taken more than a simple declaration to convince Aramaki that she was ready for field duty, of course, and it was only after the Major gave her assurances that she would remain at base, in a support capacity, that he finally agreed to schedule her body transfer. He also insisted on accompanying her to the police hospital, ostensibly to bring her up to speed, but also, she suspected, to keep an eye on her. 

The transfer would take several hours, but she would use the time to catch up on the team’s progress and plan her own next moves. According to the Chief, the team had been extremely effective at gathering information on their targets since the last briefing; not surprising, given their collective skill and shared motivation. It was the Tachikoma who had broken the case open, though. It seemed that the think tanks’ devotion to Batou would always lead them to act on their own initiative in surprising new ways. 

They had somehow managed to hack into the national IR system and identify not one but three suspected ringleaders from footage of a communist rally in Fukuoka. Batou’s favorite tank had insisted on accompanying Togusa and Azuma when they paid a call to the Fukuoka cell. They were making demands now. Where had they learned that, she asked herself, already knowing the answer.

From that raid, the team had garnered a trove of illegally modified semi-automatic weapons, and one very unhappy survivor, who had been transported back to HQ for questioning early that morning. The Chief had scolded them for only leaving one ringleader alive, but not as much as he probably should have.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Tuesday, 16:30 _

Each member of Section 9 brought a unique set of skills to the team; their diversity was their strength, as the Major frequently made a point to remind them. For Togusa, one of those skills was good, old-fashioned interrogation, developed during his years as a Niihama police investigator and honed against the suspects whose cyberbrains Section 9 couldn’t just hack. Specifically, suspects without cyberbrains. 

The sullen young man currently nursing several broken bones in the chair across from Togusa fell into that category, and he had been putting all of the former detective’s skill - and patience - to the test for most of the afternoon.

“This will really go better for you if you would just cooperate with us.” Togusa stood over the man, hands braced on the cold metal table, frustration creeping into his tone.

“Get fucked, pig.” The young man spat back, quite literally. This had been the gist of their dialogue for the past three hours. So much for those interrogation skills.

“Have it your way…” Togusa straightened, wiping spittle from his cheek with a scowl. His patience had its limits too. He cast a look over the suspect’s head to the lanky man lurking in the corner. “He’s all yours, Paz.”

His partner stepped out of the shadows, cigarette dangling from lips now spreading into a joyless grin as he took Togusa’s place. Paz also had a unique set of skills, far less savory and far more violent than the former detective’s, honed in secret places where upstanding citizens didn’t dare to tread, and their suspect was about to be treated to a hands-on demonstration.

Outside the interrogation room, the Major, fresh from her body swap, had been watching the questioning for the last several minutes, and allowed herself a bemused smirk as stubborn rebellion turned very rapidly into whimpering pleas. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Togusa’s blanched expression as he took up a vantage next to her.

“If Paz’s methods bother you so much, you don’t have to watch,” she offered, not quite sympathetically.

“It’s not that, I just… Isn’t he overdue for a psych eval?” He cringed, secretly grateful that Paz’s torso was obscuring his view of whatever the reformed gangster was doing to extract such blood curdling sounds from their suspect.

“He is. I’ve scheduled one for next week.” She stepped away from the glass and started to walk away, clapping Togusa on the shoulder as she passed. “Would you let him know once he finishes up with our friend there?”

Togusa just sighed, and returned his attention to the interrogation in progress, willing his lunch to stay in his stomach.

***

Thanks to Paz’s “enhanced” interrogation methods, Section 9 was soon in possession of the address of yet another safehouse, this time in one of Niihama’s many urban slums. The less-than-ideal results of the last raid still fresh in his mind, Aramaki had ordered his investigators to conduct a thorough stakeout before making their move. 

Paz and Azuma were dispatched to a neighboring building to put eyes on the scene and tail any particularly interesting suspects if needed, while Ishikawa stayed at HQ, holed up in the dive room with Borma and two rookies to conduct research and provide support to the stakeout.

Meanwhile, Borma had been busy sifting through a steady stream of audio gleaned from hacked phone calls to and from the apartment, tracing sources and placing taps where appropriate. Particularly interesting bits of information were clipped, tagged, and added to the pile. He didn’t mind the work, though it certainly didn’t rank among his favorite activities. It was a job that needed to be done, and he was content to do his part. 

One rookie, Teshima, had been placed on what he referred to as “grunt work”, watching, with mounting boredom, the feeds sent back by Paz and Azuma of shady characters, known criminals, and university students flowing in and out of the ramshackle apartment. 

Teshima had been recruited a few months earlier out of the New Tokyo Prefectural Police Department. He’d been a nationally ranked martial artist before joining the force, and was a promising detective, but he was also very green and still had a cocky, overly aggressive attitude that grated on most of the team’s nerves. That he was also mostly cyberized did not help to temper his overconfidence. The Major and Batou had agreed that putting him under Ishikawa’s supervision might help the young man learn some humility and discipline. It had been a slow, painful learning process, but Ishikawa was finally starting to make some headway after several  _ very  _ long months.

And so, as each new face entered the screen, the rookie dutifully clipped the image, ran it through the facial recognition system, and slid the data to his partner, along with his own tone-deaf attempts at colorful commentary. 

Where Teshima was brash, his counterpart Otani was introverted and meticulous. She was also the only new recruit with no law enforcement or military background. Instead, the former cyberbrain engineer had been recruited away from a tenure-track position at Niihama Polytechnic after Ishikawa had stumbled across her dissertation on cyberbrain inoculation against Stuxnet-type cyberviruses during one of his personal research binges. Section 9 could offer her more funding than any university, and more freedom than a corporate research position, and she had prudently jumped at the opportunity. Borma, much to Ishikawa’s chagrin, had immediately taken the young woman under his wing, and discovered her particular aptitude for catching things that others might miss. 

This was why she was now tasked with running Teshima’s findings through an extensive series of government databases while simultaneously checking them against a list of possible collaborators and ringleaders that Togusa and Azuma had assembled, a task otherwise well beneath her impressive intellect. Some of her searches turned up nothing of interest; clean records that could mean either no involvement with The Symbionese, or just the good fortune of having never been arrested. The rest, attached to extensive police records, radical connections, and subversive activities, were dumped into a central file for further analysis.

This mess of faces, names, and records was Ishikawa’s to sort out. As lead investigator, he had the dubious honor of cross-referencing and connecting all of the various and sundry dots assembled by his small team. Half a century earlier, this task might have been accomplished with the aid of a cork board and copious lengths of red string, but thanks to significant advances in technology since then, the tangled web could be visualized into tidy flowcharts with just a few keystrokes. 

Despite this, the analysis itself was still incredibly tedious, time-consuming work, and they had been at this for the better part of two days. Their workstations were littered with half-eaten pizzas and overflowing ashtrays, and the air was stale with cigarette smoke and body odor. Although Ishikawa was generally a patient man, he was on his last cigarette and second-to-last last nerve, having had about as much of the rookies’ inane chatter as he could handle.

_ \--Major,--  _ he called out over a direct comm, pushing the interface yoke off of his shoulders.  _ \--what are the odds on me getting a break from these kids?-- _

_ \--Out of cigarettes already?--  _ The Major’s avatar slid into his field of vision.  _ \--What do you have so far?-- _

_ \--Might as well come down and see,--  _ Ishikawa sighed. No break, then. He paused, carefully considering his next words before deciding they’d known each other long enough to excuse the request.  _ \--Bring smokes.-- _

***

The Major appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, pulling a fresh pack of cigarettes from her pocket and taking one for herself before tossing the rest to Ishikawa. She didn’t smoke, but he wasn’t about to call her out on that fact. As far as he was concerned, this was at least a marginally healthier way to manage her stress than not eating or sleeping. Instead, he merely slid her a lighter before directing her attention to the screen in front of them. 

“This place is definitely popular; we’ve ID’ed twenty-three separate individuals coming in and out over the last thirty-six hours. From what we can tell, most of them are just college kids, all one hundred percent natural, which is weird but expected, I guess, considering their politics. There’s also been a few drug dealers and known rabble rousers thrown in for good measure.” He accepted the lighter from the Major and lit his own cigarette before continuing. “Traffic is heaviest between midnight and three A.M., and again around ten A.M., not surprising considering the clientele.”

“Anything  _ new  _ to report?” She scowled, letting out a heavy cloud of smoke, prompting the old hacker to shoot her an irritated frown as he brought up a small array of photographs and profile synopses.

“Based on the background files on these four, we’re pretty certain that this has to be one of The Symbionese’s primary bases of operation. This guy,” he tapped the picture of an almost comically villainous looking man, “is wanted in six countries for inciting riots, aggravated assault, and grand larceny. His buddy here was the suspected mastermind behind that bombing at Osaka University a few years back, though the cops in that case could never find anything to definitively connect him to the crime-”

“Hey, guys, um, you should come look at this,” Otani piped up from behind them, tentatively. The Major and Ishikawa turned, giving the rookie a pair of quizzical looks. The screen in front of her was zoomed in on a photo of an attractive older woman glaring out of a rear window of the apartment, neatly coiffed silver hair and tortoise-shell glasses framing her severe expression.

“One of these things is not like the others… What’s her deal?” Ishikawa rose and crossed to Otani’s station to get a better look.

“Her  _ deal _ is that she’s one of the best cyberbrain engineers in the  _ country _ and she’s hanging out in a known terrorist safehouse,” the rookie explained, a slightly exasperated edge to her voice, running a hand through her bluntly cut bangs as if annoyed that she had to explain this. “Her name is Dr. Hikaru Murakami, and she was my thesis advisor at Osaka.”

The Major’s gaze snapped to the younger woman, her expression questioning and accusatory. “And your connection now?”

“Non-existent, I swear. She got canned a year after I graduated and I haven’t seen her since. Don't get me wrong, she was brilliant, and a great teacher, but she was a few fries short of a combo meal, if you know what I mean…” Otani twirled her finger next to her temple for effect. “She was always ranting about the military industrial complex and how cybernization would lead to mankind’s downfall, which was weird, because why would you go into cyberbrain engineering if you hate cyberbrains, y’know?” 

“Sounds like a certain terrorist group we know, Major,” Ishikawa interjected.

“Why was she fired?” The Major demanded, eyes narrowing on the photo.

“Well, no one seems to know for sure, but the rumors around the conference circuit said she got caught getting a little too  _ friendly _ with the department chair’s favorite TA. There was a whole nasty lawsuit, apparently, which would make sense. You don’t lose tenure like that without putting up a fight.”

The Major stared at the rookie for a beat before deciding she wasn’t interested in that particular line of questioning. “Does she have any connection to the Osaka U bombing?”

“Not sure, Major,” Otani responded. “I mean, she was pretty radical, but she never gave me the impression that she’d be into bombing research labs… But the timing is a pretty weird coincidence. She was fired in October of 2032, and the bombing occurred just six weeks later, and it did take out a pretty good chunk of her old lab...” Otani bit her lip, clearly troubled.

“What was Dr. Murakami’s field of research when you knew her?”

The rookie paused, and her eyes grew wide as the pieces fell together. She finally responded, just above a whisper, “Cyberbrain infiltration… Oh god, you don’t think…”

“Only one way to find out. Ishikawa, you’ve earned your break. Teshima, suit up, we’re paying the professor a visit,” the Major snapped, already halfway to the door.

“Finally!” Teshima flung up his interface yoke and bounded from his chair to follow the Major like a puppy chasing a stick, throwing a shit-eating over his shoulder to his less-than-impressed teammates on his way out.

Ishikawa rubbed a hand over his beard, sighing wearily and signaling for Otani and Borma to return to work, before slumping back into his own station. The Major’s idea of a break was not exactly what he’d had in mind, but he wasn’t about to complain. At least it got one of the rookies out of his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Thursday, 09:00 _

The raid was short, fast, and absolutely did not warrant the five field operatives assigned to the task. It had taken longer to file the necessary paperwork than it had to secure the apartment, and their laser sights found nothing but two very bewildered and very stoned university students, their pipes still clasped in their hands as they surrendered. 

_ \--Sorry, Major, they must have realized we were coming,--  _ Togusa called out from the next room over, his tone anticipating reprisal from his commander.

_ \--Ishikawa, I want to know exactly how they were tipped off. Togusa, sweep the apartment for anything useful.--  _

The Major took a deep breath to tamp down her agitation as she surveyed the dingy living room around her. The place was filthy, littered with takeout containers, beer cans, and unwashed laundry, and the walls were covered in a laughably predictable collection of faux-radical paraphernalia, including large posters of Che Guevara and Mao Zedong. 

_ ‘Typical,’  _ she thought, glaring down at the slightly glazed expressions of their captives. “Teshima, Azuma, take these two back to HQ. We’ll deal with them later.”

As Azuma and Teshima roughly pushed the young men out the door, ignoring their feeble protests about “civil rights”, the Major made her way to the rear of the apartment. Beyond a kitchen that was somehow even more disgusting than the living room, she found a door standing ajar. Drawing her pistol more out of habit than actual expectation that she might need it, she pushed the door open slowly with her free hand. As expected, the room was empty. 

The office was, compared to the rest of the apartment, immaculate, though it was clear that someone had recently left in a hurry. A cool morning breeze wafted in from the open window, rustling several papers strewn across the desk and floor. 

_ \--Paz, I want you to take two of the Tachikoma and search the neighborhood in a twenty block radius. See who else you can round up.-- _

_ \--Roger!--  _ Three voices, two cheerful and one bored, replied in unison, and the Major caught the glimmer of two large camouflaged shapes zip through the alley below.

Turning her attention to the workstation, she noted a high end Sagawa dummy barrier tucked under the desk, still bearing a faded label reading ‘Property of Osaka University School of Engineering’. Probably not part of the professor’s official severance package. Someone had made a clumsy attempt to sabotage the tower next to the barrier, but closer inspection revealed that most of the core components were still intact. Putting away her pistol, she scooped up the tower, and opened a cybercomm.

_ \--Ishikawa, I’m sending a computer terminal back to HQ for you. Someone tried to fry the memory, but they were sloppy. Find out what they were trying to hide.-- _

_ \--You shouldn’t have.--  _ Ishikawa’s voice dripped with exhausted sarcasm. She silently promised him a day off when this was all over.

Stepping back out into the kitchen, she rejoined Togusa, who had just exited one of the bedrooms, carrying a stack of several hardbound books. “For a cyberbrain engineer, Murakami sure does have a thing for paper media…” he hefted his find up to show the Major their spines. “They look like they’re some kind of experiment log, but it’s all way over my head.”

“Drop them off at HQ with this,” she shoved the terminal into his arms, ignoring his strained expression. “Maybe Otani can make sense of them.”

“Where are you going?” he called after her, adjusting his grip awkwardly as he tried not to drop the terminal.

“To find the professor,” she shouted back over her shoulder, and then she was out the door and out of sight, leaving Togusa alone with an armful of evidence and a rueful thought. The chief was not going to like this.

***

_ \--Major, what the hell do you think you’re doing?-- _

_ \--My job.-- _

_ \--Your orders were to search the safehouse and return to base, not to go off alone after a suspect!-- _

_ \--I have a Tachikoma.-- _

_ \--You know what I meant!-- _

_ \--If you want to help, have Ishikawa patch me into the local IR and send Saito out in the tiltrotor.-- _

Damn her. Aramaki extended commlines to the requested operatives, delivering their orders tersely.  _ \--Major, I want Dr. Murakami alive, do you understand me?-- _

_ \--No promises.-- _

_ \--Major! That is an order!--  _

The frustratingly familiar click of a commline closing was her only response.

***

It took Ishikawa exactly six minutes to tap into the citywide IR system, patch the Major into the feed, identify a familiar face in the back seat of black sedan, and run it through the facial recognition program. It was a personal best, not that he kept track of things like that.

_ \--Major, the doctor’s in a black Audi, heading west on the E11. She just passed the Matsuyama Junction. License plate November Hotel Three Niner Two Three.-- _

_ \--I’m en route. See what you can do to slow her down. Saito, what’s your ETA?-- _

_ \--Two minutes to the Junction, 45 seconds to set up a shot. Thirty if you can stop the car.--  _

_ \--Take out the driver. Three minutes to intercept.-- _

The Major had anticipated that the doctor would try to skip town, and that the E11 was the fastest and therefore most likely route. She had, however, misjudged the direction her quarry would take. The sudden skid and turn of the Tachikoma as it leapt from the eastbound overpass to the westbound nearly caused two separate three car pileups, but the local cops would have to sort that out. From the cockpit of the think tank, the Major couldn’t hear the squealing of tires, the blaring of horns, or the roar of the tiltrotor coming in low over the expressway. All of her attention was focused on the black sedan several hundred yards in front of her. Two minutes to intercept.

_ \--Tachikoma, as soon as we get in firing range, take out the tires.-- _

_ \--Aye aye, Captain, er, Major!--  _

Weaving through the mid-morning traffic with practiced ease and reckless disregard for the civilians around her, the Major closed the gap in one minute, thirty-seven seconds. 

High velocity rounds chewed through asphalt and rubber, sending the back end of the target vehicle careening wildly into surrounding cars. It pinballed off a delivery van as the driver tried desperately to regain control, sparks flying as metal scraped against metal, losing speed by the second. High in the sky above, a rifle flashed, and crimson exploded against the front windshield, sending the car veering hard to the right, slamming into the barrier and skidding forward several yards before finally coming to a stop.

The rear driver-side door swung open, and a silver-haired woman in an expensive-looking tailored suit and sensible heels emerged, looking visibly shaken but unharmed. She shot one look back at the rapidly advancing think tank, and took off at a full sprint. Several yards behind, the Major popped the cockpit of the still-moving Tachikoma and leapt free, rolling into the fall and onto her feet before training her rifle on the woman’s back. 

“FREEEEZE!”

That the woman actually did come to a stop was somewhat of a surprise, though less so than the almost amused expression on her face as she turned to face her pursuer.

“Get your hands where I can see them!” The Major advanced, shifting her aim slightly to line up the center of the professor’s forehead in her laser sight. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drop you right now.”

“Oh come now, Major Kusanagi, don’t be cliche.” Murakami’s voice was rich and level, with the patronizing tone one might use to scold a child, and she regarded the Major with a vaguely disappointed look as she held her hands over her head in surrender. “Or should I call you Motoko? I rather feel like I know you quite well…”

“I’m waiting.” The Major’s finger twitched against the trigger, the barrel of her rifle almost grazing the professor’s forehead now. Ishikawa must have hacked the traffic control systems, because the expressway around them had gone eerily quiet.

Murakami rolled her eyes, a remarkably cocky gesture for someone staring down the barrel of a Seburo. “Oh fine, I’ll play your silly game. You won’t kill me because you need me to find your little boyfriend.” Seeing the flash in her captor’s eyes, she grinned. “Oh darling, I know all about you two. Rather sordid, really... Oh don’t look surprised - it’s not as if it was terribly  _ difficult _ to hack his memories...”

The Major met Murakami’s gaze evenly, but her cyberbain was cycling through a series of worst case scenarios. The fact that the doctor had insider knowledge of her personal life was infuriating, but ultimately trivial; it was the trove of state secrets in Batou’s cyberbrain that were of far more pressing concern. The professor seemed much more interested in taunting her about the former, perhaps to distract from how much she knew of the latter. Two could play that game.

“Jealous?”

The woman let out a harsh, bark of a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I can certainly see the appeal…” she leered, “but he’s really not my type…”

“No, I hear you like them on the younger side,” the Major sniped back, flatly.

It was Murakami’s turn to lose her composure, lip curling into a snarl. “Is that what they told you?” Her face settled back into a steely calm. “Would you like to know the real reason I lost my tenure?”

“Does it have anything to do with The Symbionese? Because if not, I’m not really interested in hearing any sob stories from you.”

“Darling, it has  _ everything _ to do with The Symbionese.”

“Good, then you can tell me all about it back at headquarters.” 

The butt of her rifle caught Murakami squarely across the jaw and the woman crumpled to the asphalt like a rag doll. The Major stared down at her for a moment, briefly entertaining a stray impulse to take a cheap shot at the woman while she was down, before leaning over to bolt a lock over her QRS ports, only to find that the woman had none. Of course. Scowling, she signalled to the Tachikoma idling awkwardly next to the wrecked sedan. It skidded forward, eager to be of assistance, turning to allow her to rummage through its rear storage for a pair of cuffs. Her captive finally bound, she hoisted the woman over her shoulder and stuffed her unceremoniously into the Tachikoma's cockpit before flipping her comm open once more.

_ \--Target has been secured.-- _

_ \--Alive, I assume?--  _ Aramaki’s tone was sharp over the comm.

_ \--Yeah. She and I are going to have a nice long chat when she wakes up.-- _


	6. Chapter 6

_ Thursday, 15:00 _

The deep, angry purple welt blooming across the left side of her face and heavy shackles around her wrists were the only signs that Dr. Murakami was in fact a captive of Public Security and not simply enjoying a cup of tea in a rather unusual venue. Her expression was serene, meeting the unseen glares of her captors through the two-way glass with a hint of an indulgent smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The paper cup in her hand might as well have been fine china by the way she delicately lifted it to her lips, perfectly manicured pinky extended ever so slightly.

Outside the interrogation room, the Major watched the professor’s movements like a predator observing her prey, every synthetic nerve and muscle coiled for the strike. Beside her, Chief Aramaki was keenly aware of his operative’s body language, and it did not give him confidence. 

“Major, I am letting you handle this interrogation as a personal favor. The moment you step out of line, I am pulling you out of there, do you understand me?” He studied her reaction out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t respond, and he repeated the warning. “Is that clear, Major?”

“Crystal,” she finally muttered, pushing past him to enter the interrogation room. 

Murakami’s smile widened as the Major stalked through the door. She set her cup down, and reached for the cigarettes she had duped some rookie - probably Teshima - into bringing her, along with the tea.

“Ah, Motoko, I wondered when you might join me. I imagine you have an awful lot of questions.” She motioned to the chair across from her, inviting the Major to sit as if they were old friends about to catch up over tea.

The Major ignored the invitation, instead leaning against the glass with her arms folded. The unbothered air with which Murakami shrugged and lit her cigarette made her want to close the gap and strike it from the woman’s hand. Sucking in a breath to calm herself, she contemplated where to begin before settling on the most important matter in her mind.

“Where is Batou?”

The professor smirked and waved the question away. “Oh we’ll come to that, but do try to be more interesting in the meantime. You have a decidedly  _ idealized _ reputation to live up to, after all.”

***

A floor below, in the dive room, Otani was hunched over her station, a hard bound journal open on the desk in front of her. She had spent the last several hours pouring over her former mentor’s notes, scribbling notes of her own in a spiral notebook. Ishikawa, taking a break from his own investigation of the confiscated computer terminal, leaned over the chair behind her, following the conversation between master and student with more than a little curiosity. Cyberviruses had always been more Borma’s area of expertise, and while Ishikawa was a wizard class hacker in his own right, the physiological aspects of virus coding were beyond him, or anyone else at Section 9 for that matter.

Secretly, he patted himself on the back for convincing the Chief that the team could use a PhD on the roster.

***

The Major bit back another violent urge. “Fine. Let’s start with the fact that you’re a cyberbrain engineer who doesn’t have a cyberbrain.”

“Ah, that’s better.” Murakami took a long drag and daintily flicked ash into the waiting ashtray before settling back into her chair. “If you had known the risks of cybernization, would you have elected to submit to the procedure?”

“I wasn’t given the option.”

“No, of course not… but if you had? Oh never mind, don’t bother answering, I expect your answer would be terribly boring… ” The professor gestured dismissively with her cigarette. “The correct answer is ‘no’. Cybernization, like most advances in modern technology, was developed long before humans were ready for it, philosophically and ethically speaking. As a species, we are  _ children _ \- far too eager to grasp at every shiny new thing promising to make our lives easier, more simple, more orderly, thinking nothing of the consequences. It would not be too far to suggest that it is the same impulse that makes the masses submit so eagerly to authoritarian rule, and now… well, when the people happily implant themselves with the tools of their own domination, the fascists hardly have to lift a finger.”

“So is that why you lost your tenure? Too radical to teach?”

“Oh goodness, no; my views are not exactly uncommon in academia, and no one on the board of regents particularly cares about your politics as long as you keep the grant money flowing.” She paused, taking a sip of tea and studying the Major over the rim of the cup. ”Do you know what my research speciality was before I was so unceremoniously excommunicated from academia?”

“According to your file, you were one of Japan’s leading minds in cyberbrain infiltration and remote control. They called you a 'once in a generation prodigy’.”

“Yes, yes, though I am afraid you have only half of the story. As with governments, you rarely get the full truth from official reports when you’re dealing with universities. Far too many reputations and fragile egos to protect, you see… What that file will not tell you is that my research focused on the  _ prevention _ of cyberbrain infiltration. In fact, I believe you have one of my protégés on your staff…” She gave the Major a knowing smirk. “But of course you already knew that. Such a disappointment, that one. So much talent, so much potential, only to be sold to the highest bidder… I tried to warn her, but she never did have much in the way of ideological fortitude.”

“So what, you wouldn't sell your work? University researchers refuse to sell out all the time. What makes you special?”

“Your understanding of academia is almost charming in its naïveté. There is no academic freedom when the government holds the purse strings, darling, and Osaka University’s School of Engineering is almost entirely subsidized by the JSDF. It’s a militarist’s dream, really… Their very own research institute, churning out creative new ways to maim and destroy and subjugate, without all that pesky oversight that comes with private research.”

“And what did you create that they wanted so badly?”

“A vaccine-resistant modular virus.” She paused, letting the declaration sink in as she took another long drag from her cigarette. “Of course, it was all theoretical at the time… Never actually intended for… practical application, as it were. The models were supposed to push the boundaries of counter-virus technology, but obviously the military had far more short-sighted goals in mind when they caught wind of it. Sadly, I was never able to finish my work before my termination, and those brutes stole most of my data. I did, however, manage to smuggle enough of it out to reconstruct my early models…”

“No one has been able to develop a vaccine-resistant cybervirus. You really must be one of the greatest minds of your generation to have worked out the code degradation problem.”

“Ah, very clever, Motoko.” She took one last drag from her cigarette before stamping it out and flashing the Major a patronizing smile. “But I didn’t give up my secrets under threat of professional ruin, and I am certainly not going to be swayed by mere flattery.” 

***

Otani paused her scribbling, chewing on the end of her pen, lost in thought. She had worked out the trigger mechanism with ease, and Murakami’s notes on the virus’s efficacy were thorough - unsurprising, from what she remembered of the professor’s fastidious research habits - but there was something about the command/control code she couldn’t quite figure out. The regions of the cyberbrain it affected didn’t make sense. At least not yet.

Ironically, it was words of advice from Murakami herself that steeled her determination and urged her on, stern reminders given at the most challenging points in her academic career.  _ ‘Brilliance is not mere intelligence, Ms. Otani. It lives in persistence.’ _

***

The Major just shrugged, letting the professor think her secrets were safe. “But you did succeed, didn’t you?”

Murakami’s smile faltered. “Lets just say that I’m in a testing phase. The results so far have been… mixed. Your team dealt with my beta subjects rather more efficiently than I would have liked… But then, data is data.”

“Those mass-hijackings were just tests.”

“At their core, yes.” She met the Major’s even gaze with one of her own.

“Why blue collar laborers? Aren’t those the people your organization is trying to liberate?”

“We did liberate them… in a sense.” She reached for the pack of cigarettes, not continuing until she had lit another and taken a long draw, letting a thick cloud of smoke fill the space between them. “We gave them permission to fight back against their oppressors, to  _ indulge _ their impulses… even if they did not realize that was what they were doing.”

“Your workers’ revolution isn’t much of a revolution if your mob doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Every revolution requires sacrifice, Motoko. You should know that better than most…” Murakami replied with a pointed, knowing look. 

Dejima. Kuze. Of course she knew, but the Major refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “Let’s talk about the Symbionese.”

“If you insist.”

“They’re just a front for your tests, aren’t they?”

“Very astute, Motoko.”

“We thought we couldn’t track them because they were too well organized, but it was just the opposite, wasn’t it? You’re a cyberbrain engineer, not a political genius, professor. I read their manifesto; it reads more like the grandiose ramblings of a university student who’d just been introduced to Marx than a coherent political philosophy. They’re not ideological extremists; they’re a bunch of stupid kids you roped into your sick experiments, just like all those laborers, just like-“

“Your dear Batou.” Murakami’s condescension had a tinge of menace to it now. “I did promise we would come back to him. Obviously, I needed to test the alpha version of the virus on a more advanced subject, and what better subject than an anti-cyberwarfare specialist? Any member of your team would have sufficed, of course; he just happened to be stupid enough to take the bait. Quite a catch, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you know we’d be there?”

Murakami let out another dry, mirthless laugh, her words dripping with condescension again. “Section 9 is Japan’s worst kept secret. It was only a matter of time before Kayabuki sent her pet fascists to put down my pesky little domestic terror cell.”

The Major’s jaw tightened. “And the attack on my safehouse?”

“Two birds with one stone, as they say. A field test was necessary, and removing an exceptionally formidable opponent from the board was a perfect test environment, to say nothing of the rather poetic irony had he succeeded.” Her smile faded into a look of disappointment. “Obviously, he did not complete his objective as planned… His little rebellion was… unexpected. My own fault, really, but then a man’s loyalty is such a fickle thing… And yet, for some reason, he is  _ exceedingly _ loyal to you. One might even say irrationally so, considering…” She gave the Major a cat’s smile now. “Tell me, was it pity or just guilt that made you throw your dog a bone?”

The professor’s words cut deep, but the Major refused to let her see her bleed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Murakami’s cruel smile didn’t waver. She knew that she’d struck a nerve, regardless of the Major’s poker face. “Please… don’t tell me you actually  _ love _ him. Women like you do not  _ love. _ ” 

***

Just like that, something clicked. Otani practically leapt from her chair in her excitement, knocking Ishikawa off balance. He landed hard on his ass, swearing as he fell. 

“Oh geez, sorry Ishikawa!” The rookie leaned over to help the older man back to his feet, grinning apologetically, still practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Damnit, Otani, you better have found something good,” Ishikawa grumbled, rubbing his back and giving the young woman a look of equal parts irritation and curiosity.

“Oh! Oh you have  _ no idea. _ Wait, shit, hang on, I gotta tell the Major! She is definitely going to want to hear this!”

***

The Major paused, letting the professor’s taunt linger in the air. Doubt nipped at the back of her mind, but a whisper in her ghost rebuked the thought.

“This diversion tactic is beneath you, professor.” Impatience and anger sharpened the edges of her voice again. “You said you should have factored in his loyalty. Why?”

“Ah, there’s the Motoko I was looking for... You are familiar with Stockholm Syndrome, I assume?”

“Twentieth century psychologists theorized that it’s a trauma response - the victims of kidnapping come to identify with their captors, to the point of aiding them in their crimes, in some cases. Patty Hearst claimed she was a victim of the syndrome, after she was apprehended.”

“Yes, very good. There are competing theories about the Syndrome, though. Most psychologists posit that it is merely a survival mechanism - the victim does what they have to in order to come out of the situation alive. But there is another theory…” Murakami paused, studying her own captor’s inscrutable expression. “A minority claim that the syndrome doesn’t actually exist. That these alleged ’victims’ are in fact acting upon their own desires, freed from society’s imposed morality by their circumstances, and motivated by a genuine sympathy for their captors.”

“What does that have to do with this virus?” The Major probed, suspecting that she already knew the answer.

“It’s very simple. The virus doesn’t control so much as it… influences. The subject is merely given a suggestion; the effect depends on the subject’s willingness to accept and act upon the suggestion.” She paused again, smirking with satisfaction now as the implication of her words sunk in. “Obviously your Batou has some unresolved aggression he needs to work through… might I suggest couples counseling?”

The Major’s hand twitched, balling into a fist momentarily before relaxing again. “He obviously didn’t take to your ‘suggestion’ to finish the job.”

“Yes, well, in some cases, the subject’s own motives may override the virus. A failsafe, if you will.”

“Why would you build a failsafe like that into your virus? Wouldn’t that defeat your purpose?” 

“You assume that my purpose is complete domination.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Or perhaps you’re trying to fool yourself. The virus can’t force the subject to do anything that he is not already inclined to do... It merely liberates his unconscious desires.”

“You have a pretty sick definition of liberation.”

“You are hardly one to challenge anyone’s definition of liberation,  _ Major _ .” Murakami’s calculated calm fell away, replaced by self-righteous anger. “Your very existence is a mockery of liberty. Look at you, in that sex doll of a shell, with your black market modifications, nothing but a tool of that fascist oligarchy you call a democratically elected government. Do you really think you’re free, with your master standing on the other side of that glass, tugging on your leash? When even your most intimate moments could be subpoenaed in the name of ‘national security’? You and your Batou are nothing more than puppets who have allowed your puppeteers to convince you that they aren’t holding your strings. I almost pity you.”

It was the Major’s turn to smirk. “Pity all you want, professor. But I’m not the one in custody, and I’m certainly not the one trying to convince her captor that she’s more cunning than she actually is.” The cyborg pushed off from the wall and crossed to lean over the desk, palms flat on the cool surface, face mere inches from Murakami’s. “While you were busy trying to get under my skin, your former protégé was busy explaining exactly how full of shit you are.”

“Is that so?” Murakami’s voice was even, but a hint of uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

“What you call a ‘suggestion’ is a command/control code that overwrites the victim’s memories and attacks the impulse control center in the frontal lobe. There is no failsafe. You didn’t fail to account for Batou’s loyalty. You just failed to account for his cyberbrain’s defenses. And you also failed to solve the code degradation problem, which means your virus isn’t as infallible as you’d like us to believe.” She drew her pistol and chambered a round before leveling the barrel with the professor’s forehead. “Now. I’ll ask once again, and you really don’t want me to ask a third time: Where. Is. Batou?”

_ \--Major!-- _ Aramaki’s rebuke was sharp in her cyberbrain. The Major ignored it, keeping her pistol and her glare trained on the woman in front of her.

Murakami didn’t flinch, but merely cocked her head to one side, craning her neck to glance at the silver watch on the Major’s wrist. Her voice was even once more, full of veiled menace as she reclaimed the upper hand. “So impatient, Motoko. You’ll find out soon enough. But at the moment, I would advise that there may be more urgent matters to attend to… In fact, I believe you’re running late for a press conference…”

The Major’s jaw tightened as Aramaki’s voice cut in through her cybercomm, giving meaning to the woman’s cryptic warning. The Minister of Home Affairs was scheduled to begin a special press conference at 16:00. She glanced at the face of her watch. 15:43.  _ Damn it. _

Holstering her gun and barking out orders for an A3 loadout over cybercomm, the Major spun and raced for the door, but a rich, mocking voice from behind her stopped her in tracks.

“Oh Major, before I forget…” Murakami grinned as her captor paused in the doorway. “Happy anniversary…”


End file.
